


Cacoethes

by Valor



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Blow Jobs, Drunk Sex, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Modern AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-24
Updated: 2020-01-24
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:08:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22393777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Valor/pseuds/Valor
Summary: By three o’clock in the morning, Sylvain smells like his work—like expensive perfume, like spilled champagne, like the sharp sting of cigarette smoke lingering in his clothes. Felix finds him sitting outside the door to their apartment, legs sprawled out and head leaned back against the wood.It’s a typical Saturday night.
Relationships: Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Comments: 2
Kudos: 166





	Cacoethes

**Author's Note:**

> I should be updating Kismet and being an overall productive adult but you know  
> Sometimes you just gotta write some self indulgent trash
> 
> Big thanks to Samarium for being my beta !!!

By three o’clock in the morning, Sylvain smells like his work—like expensive perfume, like spilled champagne, like the sharp sting of cigarette smoke lingering in his clothes. Felix finds him sitting outside the door to their apartment, legs sprawled out and head leaned back against the wood.

It’s a typical Saturday night.

“Felix,” Sylvain drawls, his voice dipping into the low, easy tone it he gets when he’s had too much to drink. “I missed you.”

“Idiot,” Felix chastises, and almost says it again when he sees Sylvain’s keys left inside the lock. (Sylvain is awfully particular about this, when he’s completely wasted. _I don’t wanna come home if you’re not there,_ he always says, which is equal parts heartwarming and stupid when it ultimately means that he went inside, drunkenly stumbled around, and dragged himself back out when he was met with an empty bed.) “Who do you think has to take care of you if you catch a cold?”

Sylvain smiles, slow and wide, and dutifully slumps forward when Felix’s legs come close enough to catch him. Felix allows it, if only for the opportunity to push the door open and pocket Sylvain’s key, but has little excuse for carding his fingers through artfully mussed red hair afterwards.

“Only thing I caught are feelings for you,” Sylvain declares. “Lots… n’ lots of feelings.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

Dragging Sylvain up to his feet is a ridiculously difficult task. He’s taller and broader than Felix, and uncooperative besides; the moment he can wrap his arms around Felix’s middle, he’s pressing messy kisses to Felix’s throat, trying to steal away the crash-jerk-jump of the pulse underneath. 

(This close, it’s impossible to miss the stench of the host club. Which woman had blown her monthly earnings, all just to feel like she owned Sylvain for a single, pitiful night?)

His arm slips around Sylvain’s waist—and Sylvain, doubly as predictable in his drunken stupor, makes a grab right for Felix’s ass.

With commendable effort, Felix manages to get both of them inside. He feels Sylvain’s advance coming, even before he closes the door—and as soon as it shuts, he finds himself pushed up against it with enough force to make him gasp. Sylvain’s balance is awful; he doesn’t realize how rough he’s being, or how he almost falls with his entire weight into Felix’s waiting arms.

(And this, all of it—it makes Felix remember the first time that Sylvain had left bruises on his skin, finger-shaped marks on his wrists and hips and thighs. They’d fought. They’d fucked. It’d been some of the best sex they’d ever had, but Sylvain had looked at him afterwards so full of broken-hearted horror that Felix couldn’t linger on the sharp aches that clung to all the right spots. 

_You aren’t Miklan,_ Felix had assured, and Sylvain—Sylvain with his feather-light touches, with his cracked smiles and bitter regrets, had asked, _aren’t I?_ )

Maybe he won’t leave bruises this time. Maybe all Felix will be left with are hickeys on his throat and pains in his shoulders, but at least Sylvain doesn’t hesitate, and at least he doesn’t have that specter of his brother robbing him of half his breaths, half his heartbeats. Maybe Sylvain will kiss him and bite at his lips, and maybe Felix will kiss him back until he can taste blood on his tongue.

“Wanted you,” Sylvain murmurs against him, “All day. It drove me nuts.”

“And here you are,” Felix replies, more breathless than he realizes. Sylvain’s hand reaches between them and fails to tug the zipper of Felix’s pants down. “Too drunk to get me out of my clothes. Can you even get it up?”

“Probably not,” Sylvain huffs, though he’s no less determined after the admission. He drops to his knees, falling harshly; they’ll ache in the morning, and he’ll doubtless lament that it isn’t because Felix had fucked him on all fours. “But m’gonna… I can use my mouth.”

Felix scoffs. He doesn’t sound as doubtful as he should be. “You’re gonna suck.”

“Yeah,” Sylvain answers, looking up with a cocky, lopsided grin. “That’s the plan.”

But he still struggles with the zipper, the button. Sylvain makes a sound of frustration, and Felix purposefully waits for him to look up again with hooded eyes and pouty lips. The intended effect is ruined by the drunken hiccup that follows shortly after, but Sylvain notices as little of it as Felix cares.

“What?”

“Don't ‘what’ me!” Sylvain complains. “Help me out, c’mon…”

Felix huffs out a laugh, quiet and low. He enjoys the way it makes Sylvain squirm. “Beg, then.”

So Sylvain tries. He leans in and mouths at the shape of Felix’s dick, presses his tongue against the fabric with a quiet hum. “Please,” Sylvain says, needier than he has any right to be. “I know you wanna fuck my mouth. And I _want_ you to. _Goddess,_ Felix… I want you to.”

And what can Felix say to that? Has there ever been a day when he’d looked at Sylvain and didn’t want, didn’t crave, didn’t _yearn_?

“...Fine.” Felix crumbles with a shaky breath. Sylvain marks his victory with a slide of too-warm hands along taut thighs, and tries to kiss Felix’s fingers when they fall low to undo the button and pull the zipper down. 

If he were more sober or coordinated, Sylvain would make a game out of tugging Felix’s pants down, all simmering heat and teasing touches. He’d kiss Felix’s hips, bite at Felix’s thighs, and be slow in taking Felix in his mouth, inch by inch, until he felt taut muscles tremble and _break_ . But Sylvain _isn’t_ sober, and he _isn’t_ coordinated; he’s an absolute mess that says _I need you_ and means it, _I want you_ like a man starved. 

His nails leave red streaks on Felix’s skin when it’s finally bared to him, and Sylvain sighs in complete bliss.

“You’ve got the prettiest dick in the world,” he declares.

“Shut up and put your mouth to use, Gautier,” Felix replies.

Sylvain laughs and does as he’s told, obedient. The very moment that Felix decides to look down is his complete and utter undoing.

Sylvain lacks his usual finesse, but he paints a lewd picture when he’s on his knees, one hand reaching instinctively between his own legs. He’s messy, and his pace is awful, and he can’t seem to decide if he wants to take the whole of Felix in or worship him slowly with soft kisses and hot drags of his tongue. But Sylvain’s eyes flutter closed, and he _moans_ when Felix can’t help the little jerk of his hips, and—Goddess help him, it’s the most wanton sound anyone could ever make, desperate and needy and overwhelmingly, _achingly_ alluring.

Felix’s fingers find Sylvain’s hair, holding him still, holding him back, holding-clinging- _claiming,_ because he can’t bear to let go and Sylvain will never _want_ him to. His breaths come in short bursts and sharp gasps; Sylvain drinks it all in and doesn’t stop pleading with eyes and lips and tongue.

Felix is weak. His fingers twist tight into soft red hair, and he loses himself in fucking Sylvain’s throat raw.

It’s rough and callous and everything but. He treats Sylvain like an object of pleasure and Felix can see that it strikes something in him, reaches the dark and awful parts of him that can’t quite understand what it means to be _worth_ something unless it hurts.

(In time, together, Sylvain will learn, and he will heal. In time, together, words and promises and all the actions of _here_ and _now_ will be enough. But until then—)

“—I’m close,” Felix pants in warning. Even without the desperate way that Sylvain grabs at his hips, he _knows_ , intimately and assuredly, like the desire is his own. 

_Let me taste you,_ Sylvain always begs. _Let me hold you, let me take you, let me have all of you. Let me, let me, let me_ —and Felix can never say _no_.

He finishes in Sylvain’s mouth. Sylvain swallows it all like some sort of desperate, filthy creature, and gives a short laugh when he licking the head of Felix’s cock earns a shudder and a low, quiet moan. Slowly, Felix releases his grip on Sylvain’s hair; not so slowly, Sylvain reaches for his hands, and presses kisses to his fingers like his jaw isn’t aching and sore.

Felix brushes his thumb against Sylvain’s lips, and _knows_ the awful words that are coming even before the stupid smile brightens Sylvain’s face.

“Thanks for the meal.”

“You’re disgusting,” Felix replies, though not unkindly. 

“Does that mean you won’t kiss me?” Sylvain asks, pressing his cheek against a calloused palm. 

Felix nudges against him, gentle and fond. “...It means I will, idiot. But only if you cooperate and drag your ass to the shower.”

“Only if,” Sylvain counters, “you come in with me.”

“N—”

“Just to make sure I won’t fall and crack my head! What if I die knowing I was too drunk to get hard and have a hundred rounds of mind-blowing sex with you?”

It’s almost impossible to believe how Sylvain is as stupid as he is endearing. Felix hauls him up to his feet and almost stumbles back when Sylvain falls into his arms the moment he can. “A hundred seems like a stretch.”

“You’re right. Maybe just ninety-nine,” Sylvain hums, and tries to nudge his forehead against Felix’s own. He isn’t very successful; the alcohol makes him misjudge the distance, and he ends up slamming their heads together with a harsh _crack_ that has them both crumpled on the floor. _“Fuck!”_

Through the pain, Felix contemplates murdering the man he loves.

It’s a typical Saturday night.

**Author's Note:**

> catch me on Twitter (@silvergraced) all I do is cry about my ships


End file.
